


Playing It Close

by PenelopeWaits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Sherlock, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, anti-Catholic language, piano bar references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5902228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/pseuds/PenelopeWaits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John invites Sherlock to join him when John brings Harriet to a Coldplay concert.  Sherlock agrees, hoping to learn something more about John's childhood.  Harriet cooperates, revealing something unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing It Close

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for a Secret Santa thing. The prompt request, John bringing Sherlock to a rock concert, really threw me for a loop. I started and abandoned a bunch of possibilities before deciding I had to let the characters lead me through it. It definitely took a left turn from the prompt... There is a playlist at the end.

     Sherlock contemplated the unlikely events of the day. He had accompanied John on a lovely June morning to Manchester, albeit with some pro forma grumbling. They had found Harriet amidst the crowd outside Etihad Stadium. Sherlock had actually entered the stadium with them willingly. He was now sitting in the darkest spot he’d been able to find, far from the crowd and the stage, listening to a group of musicians (well, they were called musicians) and a clearly enamored crowd bobbing and weaving to electric guitars and drums, with a piano or mandolin added here and there.

 

     John had given him polyurethane earplugs when they were still on the train and solemnly instructed Sherlock to wear them the moment they entered the stadium. Sherlock had scoffed at the time, but quickly installed them when they approached the huge thrust stage at the beginning of the evening. It had been bearable, at first, but as the music and the crowd grew ever more animated, he felt the pounding percussion raising his heart rate and blood pressure and suddenly it was too much. Too many people, too many smells, too much skin, too many voices yelling at each other, loose with alcohol and other things, too many motives, too much hope, too much disappointment, too much, toomuchtoomuch….

 

     Then John had grabbed his wrist, pulling him back from the stage and up, up, up steep steps into the dark at the edges of the arena, high above the crowd and the band. John had sat with him, monitoring his pulse and breathing until something like calm had returned and he could think again.

 

     “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” John observed.

 

     “Not at all. It just… It smells awful. All those sweaty bodies jammed up against the stage… You should have provided nose plugs as well.”

 

     “Cheers, “ John said with a grin. “I’m pretty fragrant myself at this point. Look, do you want to go? I mean, Harry is having a grand time, but she’ll understand. I can text her down there…”

 

     “Don’t be absurd, I’m fine. I’m… I’ll just stay here and…”

 

     “You’ll observe, I know. Just try to keep your observations to yourself, yeah? You don’t need another split lip.”

 

     “You underestimate my reflexes and my skill.”

 

     “And you’ll underestimate a Trafford Park lorry driver and I’ll find you in pieces under the stands. “

 

     “Oh, please…”

 

     “Yeah and thank you. Listen, they’re more than halfway done. I’ll go grab Harry and we’ll make our way back here to listen to the rest, alright?”

 

     Sherlock nodded and John made his way down the tiers of the stadium and disappeared into the crowd.   The detective closed his eyes and focused on the memory of how they had gotten to this place.

 

     June had seemed impossibly far away when he had said yes to this plan and Christmas preparations had complicated everything, especially The Event at 18:48 on December 18, 2015. John and Hudders had just finished decorating for the Christmas party, the first since John had moved back to Baker Street. John, ever the boyish romantic, kissed Sherlock for the very first time under the mistletoe. Sherlock had promptly gone cataleptic, which, had they invited a longer list of people, might have delayed the start of the party. As it happened, Sherlock roused himself at 19:37 and found the only things amiss were that he was wearing a Santa hat and Molly, Greg, Wiggins and John were a full drink ahead of him. Hudders was two drinks ahead, but that was normal.

 

     For the rest of the evening, John had given him little affectionate touches, nothing that different from the affection he had demonstrated ever since he had moved back in, but he was doing it when everyone could see. Sherlock distractedly played “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlefolks” and drank quite a bit of eggnog and otherwise sat folded up in his chair, watching John be the comfortable host in his true home. By the time the guests had left, Sherlock had moved to the couch. John walked a somewhat tipsy Mrs. H back downstairs and then returned, his steps sure and steady.

 

     The doctor sat on the sofa, close but not touching, and faced Sherlock, taking his hand. “Alright?” he asked.

 

    “What are we doing?”

 

     “Well, I’d say I’m doing most of the doing, right now. I guess I’m asking, offering… Asking if you’re… interested?”

 

    “Interested?”

 

“Yeah, in me? Are you interested in me?”

 

“John, I am always interested…”

 

“You know what I mean… Alright, alright, we’ll do it this way.” John took both of Sherlock’s large hands in his small ones and gave them a squeeze. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, are you interested in a … Romantic relationship with me?”

 

“Romantic, meaning with kissing and… hugging and… so forth?”

 

“Yes, that’s right, kissing and hugging and… so forth, if you’re interested in so forth.”

 

“What if I’m not. Not interested in… so forth?”

 

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend and it turns out I’m happier living with you than I have ever been with anyone else. If we are just flat mates for the rest of our lives, I can… I can live with that. I can cheerfully, comfortably live with that. I just… I needed to ask or I would always regret not asking.”

 

“What if I like the kissing and the touching but I don’t know about the … so forth?”

 

“Then, if it is alright, we’ll find out about the so forth together, one day, one step at a time. Yeah?”

 

“Yes. John?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Would you? Could we try the kissing part again?”

 

“Good idea, genius.”

 

And they had done the kissing part again, for a very long time. Then they had gone to Sherlock’s room and done the hugging part for quite some time and Sherlock had found the whole business exhausting and fallen asleep. He had awoken to some sounds in the loo, but John had returned a bit later and snuggled back up and they had slept again and John, in fact, seemed quite content.

 

The next day had been very normal, John up at dawn and making coffee and smiling good morning and things had gone on from there. Sometime later that day John had explained that he had ordered concert tickets for Harry’s Christmas present.

 

“I’m sending her one ticket to the Coldplay concert in Manchester, that’s in June. June is her twelve-month sober anniversary date. I told her if she’s sober in June, I’d go to the concert with her. We haven’t done that together since I joined the RAMC. She’s pretty jazzed about that idea and she asked if you would come as well, so I’m asking. Will you come to a rock concert with Harry and me in June?”

 

Harry’s continued sobriety seemed implausible and Sherlock’s analysis in December told him that twelve months sober was an unobtainable goal. In a fog of sentiment, he said yes. He should have known better than to underestimate Watson stubbornness. Now he sat in an uncomfortable stadium in Manchester, waiting…

 

“Wake up, Princess, your frog is here!” chirped Harriet Watson, who turned out to be entirely too cheerful a person when she was sober and in her brother’s company.

 

“Yeah, not here for long, headed to the loo before the lines get longer.”

 

“There are lines?” asked Sherlock, incredulously.

 

“At a concert like this, the way the beer is flowing, at this hour, there will definitely be lines. See, you miss all the experiential minutia, growing up in that cultured Holmes barrow. Back in a few,” John said with a grin.

 

John was barely out of earshot when Harry turned to face the detective, eyes narrowed and face grim. “So, how is it going? He seems happy. Are you happy? Are you treating him right? Has he managed to man up and take a good rogering yet?”

 

“I fail to see how that’s your business…”

 

“So that’s a no, then. No way you’d look less than smug if you’d managed that.”

 

“Harriet, I absolutely refuse to discuss…”

 

“I’ll trade stories. Just let me know how its going, no details, and I’ll tell you anything you like about John’s childhood. I know you’re dying for more data and you’ll never get it from him. I’m your best resource, your only resource, really.”

 

There was no doubt the wretched woman had him dead to rights. Barring an occasional story about med school or the army, John was a giant clam about his past and Harry was the only family John had left.

 

“It’s going well, I think. I don’t have anything to compare it to but… He’s not angry anymore, well, not much, just the usual sweary stuff about housekeeping and so forth. He’s not doing the nervous hand clenching or the long marches in the park. He’s… happy.”

 

“And the bedroom stuff is going all right?”

 

“You said no details!”

 

“I’m not asking what brand of lube you use. Just… men, he always liked men, a bit, at least, but he never… He was… We didn’t grow up in the most progressive household, you know? Johnny, he buried so much of himself. I just want to know if he’s managed to dig out, to be himself.”

 

“He’s very… affectionate, if that’s what you’re asking. He says the bedroom stuff, as you say, is going fine.”

 

Harry narrowed her eyes again and stared, but then she seemed to decide that was enough, for now. “Alright then, what do you want to know?”

 

It was carte blanche and there were 152 different starting questions on his list, but the conversation with Harry thus far was deeply into territory that Sherlock agonized over. He knew that he took “going slow” to a tortoise–like extreme and John had been extraordinarily patient. Sherlock was also certain such patience could not last; especially as it seemed unlikely they would ever manage real sex, which was certainly what John wanted. Sherlock imagined by next Christmas John would be out looking for a new romantic partner, one who could deliver the goods.

 

“Hey, Princess, you in there? John will be back soon. Better take advantage…”

 

Grasping at the last question entered in the queue, Sherlock asked, “Is this John’s favorite music then?”

 

“You mean Coldplay? Or rock music in general?”

 

“Either… Is this what he enjoys? He never plays this at home.”

 

“Yeah, no, he wouldn’t. He went to concerts with me during his rebellious phase. In fact, he sang in my band when he was in 11th form, but…”

 

“John sang?”

 

“Like a bird. Here, look,” said Harry, digging for her wallet. From behind a battered drivers license, she pulled an even more battered photo. “Don’t even think of nicking it,” she said before handing it over.

 

There stood a seventeen year old John, slender as a willow. He was wearing a baggy plaid shirt and loose, faded jeans. His head was thrown back, hips canted forward, face in a trance as he nearly kissed a microphone, completely serious and completely vulnerable in a way Sherlock had never seen.

 

“It was Madchester, you know? Stone Roses and all that…”

 

“He sang with you.”

 

“Yeah, I had this band, Harry and the Harridans, but then Johnny started singing with us and we changed the name to Scotch Snaps. He really hauled in the crowds until he quit to go to uni.”

 

“And he liked this?”

 

“Well, he liked singing and Da liked him and me working the clubs together. Thought we’d keep each other out of trouble. It sort of worked. John didn’t like it as well as the stuff he used to sing as a kid.”

 

“Which was?”

 

“Church stuff, mostly, you know, Bach and Handel and all that.”

 

“John sang Bach?”

 

“Yeah, some mass, you know? I think he was eight or nine. Anyway, the priest started paying for lessons for him. I remember that Christmas he sang “Once in Royal David’s City”. Honest to god, you would have thought someone cracked the sky and let an angel’s voice slip out, it was so bloody beautiful.”

 

“And then he just stopped?”

 

“Well, Da found out, din’t he. Said no son of his was taking lessons from some nancy paid for by a dog-collared sodomite to turn his son into a poofter. He was a piece of work, our Da.”

 

“So he stopped singing when your father cancelled the lessons?”

 

“Nah, Johnny couldn’t stop singing any more than a chaffinch could, but Da wouldn’t let him sing in church any more. He sang in chorus at school and in our band for a year or so, til he went to uni. But what he really loved was…”

 

“Sour cream and onion,” said John from behind them.

 

Sherlock snapped his head around and found John in the row behind them, a small smile on his face.

 

“My favorite crisps, right, when I was a kid, were sour cream and onion. Can’t stand them now. Listen, they’re on “Amazing Day”. How about we head down and see if we can beat the crowd to the tram, since you two are just nattering on. Alright Harry?”

 

So they caught the Met back into town and got off at Piccadilly. If Harriet was disappointed at missing the finale, she didn’t show it. They were walking along Princess Street, headed toward Harriet’s flat. She was belting out “For a second, I was in control. I had it once, I lost it though.” The next moment John was joining in with a harmony, singing “I’ve lost you now, you let me go. But one last time, tell me you love me!”

 

Harriet’s flat was a walk up on Richmond Street, much more modern than 221B. As soon as they came through the door, she said, “Make some tea, Johnny. Use the good stuff and make a pot. There’s some stilton in the fridge and some decent bread. Search around, it’s safer than your kitchen.”

 

"It’s your flat. You’re the hostess.”

 

“I need to dig something out for Sherlock. Back in a tick.”

 

John began rummaging through the cabinets and casually asked, “What did you two get up to then? I only stepped away for a bit…”

 

“Please, John, I have no idea where you went, but you clearly were giving your sister and I some time alone to get to know each other. No men’s room line could possibly have taken you that long.”

 

“Yeah, well she’s been bugging me non-stop since I moved back in, wanting to know if you were treating me right. I figured it was the simplest solution. Sorry if she bent your ear with old stories.”

 

“Actually, she surprised me. She said you used to sing and showed me a photo.”

 

“Hmmm… True enough. I wasn’t half bad, but I was never a real musician, couldn’t really sight read, learned everything by ear.”

 

“She said…”

 

“Here we are,” said Harriet, bustling back into the sitting room, wrestling an ancient Yamaha keyboard and power supply.

 

“Jeez, Harry, is that the same…”

 

“Yup, I’ve moved this thing to hell and back, but it still works. Still has your old standards on it too!”

 

“Jesus!”

 

“Nah, none of that stuff, I’ve got the ones you really liked. Sherlock, meet Johnny Watson, piano lounge singer extraordinaire! Earned his pocket money throughout uni singing to old birds in the bars. They ate it up. He always liked the sad songs best, the torch songs. I bet he still knows every lyric from Carousel. When Sunset Boulevard came out, he begged for a ticket for Christmas. He sang “Too much in love to Care” for weeks.”

 

John palmed his face while his sister fussed with the buttons. After a bit, a tune came floating out of the buzzy speakers and sure enough, Sherlock recognized it as something that had played overhead in John’s bedroom late at night. Harriet started humming along, and then stopped and said softly, “Come on Johnny, sing with me, just a bit.”

 

“I haven’t sung in years, Harry. Not since Afghanistan.”

 

“Give it a go, come on. Your boyfriend wants to hear you.”

 

John blushed hard and fast, but he glimpsed at Sherlock, who was rapidly shifting his gaze between the siblings. “I’m not a real musician, not like you,” John said softly, “You’ll be appalled.”

 

“You can’t possibly be any worse than the opening band tonight, and I listened to that.”

 

“Yeah, for ten minutes maybe.”

 

“So sing for me for ten minutes,” said the detective, sitting in a well-worn Morris chair. “She’s right, I’d like to hear you.”

 

Harry began noodling on the keys. There was a horribly sentimental, completely artificial string accompaniment and then she was singing:

 

_There's a place for us_

_Somewhere a place for us_

_Peace and quiet and open air_

_Wait for us_

_Somewhere_

 

John came in right on cue:

 

_There's a time for us_

_Some day a time for us_

_Time together_

_And time to spare_

_Time to learn_

_Time to care_

_Someday_

It was entrancing. The tinny keyboard speakers were abysmal, but John had a clear, strong tenor and Harry a rich mezzo. Their voices blended as only siblings’ voices can. When the ballad came to an end, Harriet kept going and soon John was crooning:

 

 _If you were smart, you would keep on walking_  
Out of my life as fast as you can  
I'm not the one you should pin your hopes on  
You're falling for the wrong kind of man  
This is crazy! You know we should call it a day  
Sound advice, great advice  
Let's throw it away  
  
I can't control all the things I'm feeling  
I haven't got a prayer  
If I'm a fool, well  
I'm too much in love to care

They went on for far more than the ten minutes, duet after duet. John was pulling notes and lyrics out of his memory, his voice growing stronger as he went on. Then Harry started a new tune and John gave a wry smile at his sister. He turned and looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes and began to sing:

 

_And I am telling you_

_I'm not going_

_You're the best man I'll ever know_

 

John’s voice broke in places, but he never lost eye contact.

 

_And I am telling you_

_I'm not going_

_Even though the rough times are showing_

_There's just no way, there's no way_

_We're part of the same place_

_We're part of the same time_

_We both share the same blood_

_We both have the same mind_

John came and stood in front of Sherlock, nearly between his legs.

 

_Oh, I'm not living without you,_

_Not living without you_

_I don't want to be free_

_I'm staying, I'm staying_

_And you, and you, and you_

_You're gonna love me_  
  


The lounge was silent. Harriet had slipped away on the last note. John knelt down slowly and took both of Sherlock’s hands. “I’m not going and you do love me. I’m not going, ever. You need to believe me. There is no way I’m living without you, ever.”

 

“Alright,” said Sherlock, “I’ll try. But I think you need to do a lot more singing to keep me convinced”

 

John leaned in and brushed a kiss against his partner’s lips. “Alright,” he said. “We can arrange that.”

 

Sherlock sighed and thought of the old photo in his wallet. He would really have to get Harriet a nice copy.

 

================================================================

 

Playlist - Coldplay’s “True Love”, Leonard Bernstein’s “Somewhere”, Black/Hampton/Lloyd Webber’s “Too Much in Love to Care”, Krieger/Eyen’s “And I Am Telling You”

 


End file.
